Note: Thanks for choosing to read this story! Just to warn you, there will be future mention of self harm and suicidal thoughts, possibly an attempt. If this triggers you, please do not read this fic. Also, I don't own any part of Sherlock, and this story is completely a work of fiction.
Sherlock ran a hand through his messy curls. He couldn't explain the way he was feeling. He could tell it was back, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly what this 'it' was.
It was a lot of things. A familiar rush of intense sadness that would flood his body without a moment's notice. A sudden change in his mood that would last for a few minutes or even a few weeks. It was quite a nuisance to be honest. He would have much preferred to be back to his usual self, without a care for anyone else, or for what would happen to him. Instead though, he found himself in a state he had not been in for almost a decade.
The last time he felt this way was in his early twenties. As a student in university, he was constantly bored with what they were 'teaching' him. In fact, he had spent most of high school learning this, and most of primary school learning high school concepts. Having a bored sociopath lurking around in chemistry labs, was unfortunately not the best idea, yet that was what it came down to in the end.
Sherlock had been drowning in boredom and it eventually lead to his experimentation with drugs. He would skip classes for weeks on end, lying in bed, loading himself up with near-lethal doses of drugs to cure this endless void inside himself.
Now, in his thirties, he could see the signs of this illness coming back. Yet still, he knew it would catch him off guard. It was like seeing massive grey storm clouds in the distance, knowing they were coming your way. You had two choices, to stay outside and experience the sudden violence that would ensue, or to run inside, shut the doors and windows, and anticipate the rain. Sherlock had never been one to run from his fears, he would usually face them head on - if not, seek them out. But he never really knew what to do in this situation.
He could feel himself straying away from doing things he loved. He would play the violin once a week if he could force himself too, instead of daily. He lost his phone underneath a pile of dirty clothes and let it die so as to remain oblivious to all texts and calls that were coming for him. He was losing contact with the people he cared for, and who cared for him. He knew it was bad, but he couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop himself from hiding.
Even John was beginning to notice something was wrong. Sherlock had tried to hide his decline behind his meticulous routine, but it wasn't working. He couldn't focus the way he used to. He was forgetting where he put things, losing his ability to deduce. He was losing the essence of what made him... well, him!
He never thought it would happen so quickly, but here he was, drowning in this bottomless ocean of despair.
John was worried sick by this point. For the last few weeks he had noticed Sherlock's behaviour change. His quick-witted, snarky remarks became few and far between, his interest in cases was beginning to dwell, and perhaps the most concerning of all, he stopped playing his violin.
When John first moved in, he found the sound of the violin playing at odd hours of the morning to be rather eerie and unsettling, but as time passed, and his relationship with Sherlock began to deepen, he realised it was quite comforting. The smooth, long notes, flowing out of the elegant instrument, Sherlock's eyes closed as his long bony fingers moved gracefully. John could picture the scene in his mind, the tall man's silhouette, dark against the moonlight seeping in from between the curtains.
But that was all it was. An imaginary scene in his mind. Sherlock had only played the violin a few times this month, and each time, he was getting progressively worse and worse. John opted not to say anything in fear it would upset his friend, but now things were different.
Sherlock was not eating well. He ate junk food from time to time, but skipped any good, healthy meals John or Mrs Hudson had prepared. He would stay locked up in his room, refusing to come out for hours, only leaving to go to the bathroom.
Eventually, John's worry got the better of him and he found himself standing outside Sherlock's bedroom door, tempted to know. Taking in a deep breath, he knocked lightly.
"What?" came the lame reply.
"Sherlock? May I come in?" he asked tentatively.
"There wouldn't be any point in saying no anyway," John heard him mutter as he came to the door. A moment later, the lock clicked and a very light blue eye was looking at John through a small crack. Sherlock's skin was paler than it had ever been before. John thought he had seen his friend at his worst, but clearly there was more he did not know.
The only question that remained was - would Sherlock let him in?
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